


25 Lives

by Lywinis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefly Verse, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Multiple, F/M, M/M, Rule 63 Phyllis Coulson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2070345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles based on the poem of the same name. Many themes abound, many different circumstances. But one constant remains throughout all of them — every version of Steve loves every version of Phil, and vice versa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The very first time I remember you, you are blonde and don't love me back.

Hestia waited. She always did, but did not know why. The Fates had not been kind enough to provide that information. Still, she kept her hearth, she baked her bread. Always, she looked out her windows upon foggy Olympus, taking in the mountain and its denizens.

She was hearth and home, not excitement, save for the defense of such. She was not radiant Aphrodite or comely Demeter, nor was she clever Hera or wise Athena, but she shone in her own ways. She kept a tidy house, which smelt of dentrolivano, vassiliko, and oil from the bread she baked. Many gods and goddesses sought her out when she baked, and she often sent them home with rounded loaves wrapped in cloth after being drizzled with sweet honey.

Now, however, she leaned her chin in her palm and gazed out the window, to where Ares shone on his chariot as he prepared to ride for Troy.

Some might think it strange that she find him beautiful, but she had long watched Ares from afar, his oiled and braided hair and his shining eyes that fixed upon his targets like arrows from his mighty war bow, but quiet Hestia loved him, in her way.

Though he was violent, he was not so without reason, and Hestia offered him her bread same as the others. He always accepted with gracious thanks, but his steely eyes were always drawn to the form of Aphrodite, and Hestia slipped away unnoticed to watch from afar.

Perhaps, one day.

* * *

The day Hephaestus caught Ares and Aphrodite in his finely woven net, she almost went when beckoned. She almost broke her heart in two seeing them, but the hand of wise Athena on her forearm stayed her morbid curiosity. Grey-eyed Athena, cautious and caring, spared Hestia, and so the goddess took her home and baked her rounded loaves with honey, to serve with goat in stew with barley, hearty simple fare that kept her hands busy and conversation that kept her mind free from Ares’s hands on lovely Aphrodite’s supple thighs and milky skin.

Hestia did not offer Aphrodite loaves from her ovens any longer, but when asked, she was able to provide. Aphrodite’s son Eros, always a favorite nephew, managed to charm her out of oat cakes flavored with cinnamon and honey. She did not watch for Ares any longer. No god who had supped of Aphrodite’s milky skin would settle for a goddess with scars from the embers of the hearth, she knew.

* * *

She, like the other gods, weakened as the enlightenment of man gave rise to science, and the Christ child gave rise to the trampling of the hearth fire. She watched, her head bowing lower as the temples rotted and calves were offered to one god, not many. Religion followed, what was known as the Orthodoxy.

Zeus did what he could to save them, giving them mortal lives and saying that they would complete the cycles of their lives, sleeping in mortal shells, until such a time as they were to remember. Hestia did as she was bidden, living a thousand lives and sleeping in the psyches of mortals, dreaming of cloudy Olympus and of Ares, stern in his armor with a voice like the clashing of swords.

* * *

Phil wasn’t expecting to find Steve Rogers alive in the wreck of the Valkyrie. He  _really_ hadn’t expected to find him sitting in the captain’s chair like a throne, his shield at his feet and regarding Phil with cold blue eyes as he opened the cockpit door.

He cleared his throat, looking at the man before him, bearded and with wild and shaggy hair.

“Steve Rogers?” he asked.

“There are some who call me that,” he said softly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Phil Coulson from the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division,” he said. “SHIELD and I have been looking for you for a long time.”

“Then tell me, Phil Coulson,” Steve said. “Why do you seek me out?”

“Because we’re here to save the world, sir.”

“Then lead me to your transport, Soldier. I’m going to need a debrief.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, calling for medics on his radio.

* * *

Steve sniffed. Was that…bread baking? He turned around in the hall at SHIELD, and maybe that was a stupid move, to show confusion and weakness in front of these people, but he was the god of war. It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried to kill him before.

He paused. He had to meet with Coulson in an hour, but damn if that didn’t smell like home. Rosemary and olive oil, and sweet honey.

He rounded the corner and bumped into Phil.

“Oh, you made it, excellent,” Phil said, smiling. Steve scented the air again, with a start. He realized the scent was coming from _Phil_. “I’ve got some forms I need to go over with you, just some input from the last mission.”

“All right,” he said, padding along behind him like a large cat. Still sniffing, he tried to confirm. There was a hint of rosemary when Phil waved a hand to make a point, and Steve’s look was sly as he subtly warned the other agents away from him with body language, looming over him.

Phil smiled up at him, and Steve smiled back. No wonder he liked the agent. He felt like home. Nothing had felt like that for centuries.

“You like Italian?” Phil asked. Steve blinked. “I was going to order takeout.”

“Actually,” Steve said, his voice a purr. “I think I’d prefer Greek. I know a place down the street. You want to go with me?”

“Sure,” Phil said. “Figure we can break for dinner around eight, if that’s all right with you?”

“Sounds perfect,” Steve said.

* * *

It was a slow thing, something that happened over time, but when he gave Phil a key to his apartment, he hadn’t expected the agent to do anything but sleep over.

Instead, Phil _changed_ everything. Slow steps, one thing or another, like a blue blanket that rested across the back of the couch, warm and cozy during movie nights. Pillows and cushions appeared, and large, colorful quilts made it across his bed.

And his home, no matter how long he was away, smelled like fresh-baked bread. Steve sniffed the air, smelling the warm honey as he set his duffel down with a sigh. Phil hadn’t been back in a couple weeks, and he missed him. Missed burying his nose in Phil’s hair and inhaling the scent of home. It made him restless.

But then, keys sounded in the lock and Steve perked. Was that?

“Hey, you,” Phil said, opening the door, and Steve turned, pulling him into his arms.

“Hestia,” he whispered, and Phil looked up at him.

“It’s about time,” he said, a small, secretive smile forming. “I was thinking you would never guess.”

“You…knew?” Steve gaped at him.

“A while ago. Whatever TAHITI did, it awakened a lot of memories,” he said, cupping Steve’s neck and pulling him in to kiss.

“Hestia, I’m—“

“I’m just Phil now, sweetheart,” he said, smiling. “Just like you’re Steve. That’s all we’ve ever needed from each other.”

Steve tucked Phil under his chin, just holding him, and found that it was true.


	2. The next time, you are brunette, and you do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phyllis Coulson stays out of the way. Steve wants her in his way as much as possible.

“Captain Rogers?” came the voice, and Steve turned, raising a brow before he caught his breath. The woman was beautiful, with sleek brown hair and pale blue-grey eyes that caught the light. She dressed plainly, in a pantsuit that meant to evoke the eye sliding right off of her, and subtle makeup. Steve wasn’t fooled, though, and maybe it was the way she was smiling at him.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said.

“My name is Phyllis Coulson, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division,” she said. “SHIELD has sent me to debrief you.”

“I see,” he said. What was it with him and women in positions of power? Bucky would laugh at him, and the thought was a fresh slice of pain in the middle of Steve’s grief. Blinking, he realized she was staring. “How can I help?”

“Well, if you’ll come this way with me, we’ll get you settled in. I’m very sorry for that fiasco in the hospital. I _told_ them you’d much rather appreciate the truth,” she said, and his head swiveled to take her in.

“The truth, huh?” he asked. “And how much of the truth am I going to get from you, Agent Coulson?”

She gave him a blasé look. “As much as I can give you without breaking security clearances, Captain. You have my word.”

“Then that’ll have to do,” he said.

* * *

“Agent Coulson?” Steve asked, rapping on her open door. She looked up, the tip of her pen in her mouth and he swallowed, watching her. “I was wondering…”

“Can it wait, Captain? I’m in the middle of another damn war with accounting. They’ve said my numbers are wrong and I’m telling them they’re not, because I did, in fact, use 16,000 gallons of fuel last mission and not 160,000.  My BUS is big, but not _that_ big.” She scowled, and he could see now that her lips were blue from where the pen had cracked and leaked. She only glared when he chuckled.

“I think you need a break,” he said.

“Impossible. I need to finish this.” She waved a hand. “Breaks are for those below level six.”

“Not even to go to dinner with me?” he asked, his smile turning what he hoped was at least charming. She looked up again, reaching up to smooth her hair as though it had somehow fallen out of place.

“What’s the catch?” she asked.

“Well, no catch, really, though I might be convinced to order in and help with the paperwork,” he said softly. She caught her breath, and he’d have missed it without his exceptional hearing, but he reached up and brushed some of her hair behind her ear. “Please? I’d just…really like to get to know you better. Outside of work.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes large as she leaned against his palm. He beamed at her, and she flushed a pretty pink. “I mean, it’s not that I’m not interested. I’ve tried to keep things professional, so as not to make you uncomfortable—“

“Come to dinner with me, Phyllis,” he said, and he might be wheedling, but she was also wavering. “I won’t tell you were playing hookey.”

She swallowed. “Okay. But only because you asked so nicely. Let me…let me get my coat.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “You might also wanna check your pen.”

She looked down. “Aw, dammit.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I hear Italian washes the taste of ink away anyway.”

“That so?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“That’s what they tell me.”

* * *

Later, as he kissed her goodnight and almost floated down the stairs to her apartment, he found that what they’d told him was right.

He’d even managed a second date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two! I do love this story. These are going to be shorter drabbles, I think. Just to give you tastes of the universes I have in my vault.


	3. After a while I give up trying to guess if the color of your hair means anything.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is the captain. We have a little problem with our entry sequence, so we may experience some slight turbulence and then - explode." Captain Malcolm Reynolds, _Firefly_

The _Liberty_ was a piece of junk if you asked the everyman. A firefly class trawler, it looked like it was falling apart, but Phil strolled up to the young woman sitting on the lawn chair in front of it and asked how much it would be to the next port.

“Depends on where you’re going,” she said, flashing him a smile from under her paper parasol. “And what you’ve got to pay with.”

“Well, I don’t have much of an idea of where I’m going yet, but I’ll be paying with Alliance credits,” he said, and she scowled.

“Won’t get you far out here,” she replied, wrinkling her nose.

“And these,” he said, opening a box for her. Her eyes lit up.

“Welcome to _Liberty_ , mister,” she said. “Name’s Darcy. I’m the pilot-slash-mechanic.”

“Not the Captain?” he asked.

“No, that’s _zhiyo_ ,” she said, leading him inside. “You’ll meet him later. He’s picking up supplies.”

“I look forward to it,” he said.

* * *

“Don’t get mad at me,” she said. Steve stopped unloading the baggage, blinking at Darcy.

“ _Meimei_ , when you say that right off the bat, I’m liable to be cross with you regardless,” he said. “What’d you do?”

 “Well, you said we needed the money,” she started, wringing her fingers together under the sweater she’d stolen from him. It was big on her, draping like he was wont to do when she complained of cold in the black. (He suspected that was why she’d nicked it in the first place.) He scowled, and she ducked her head. “So I took on passengers.”

“ _Passengers?_ ” he asked, incredulous. “ _Meimei_ , you can’t be serious. You know the kind of work we do to get by. How is ferrying passengers going to—“

“I take it that I’ve chosen a bad time to come by,” said a voice and Steve turned, meeting the eyes of a man that made him stop. Blue-grey and full of an almost sarcastic mirth, they twinkled at him. Steve looked him over and caught sight of the collar he wore.

“Not at all, _preacher_ ,” he said, the word directed at Darcy, and she scurried to the cockpit, oversized sleeves flapping. “Just saying that we’re not really equipped to accommodate passengers, especially not in the way I’m sure you’re used to. So we’ll let you off at the next stop, when we get there. You’ll be reimbursed the rest of your trip.”

“Oh, I’ve only paid up until the next stop,” the man said, smiling. “I haven’t decided if I want to go further or not.”

“Oh.” Steve squinted at him, trying to read him, but the preacher just gave him another small, bland smile. “Well, make yourself comfortable. We’ll be off soon.”

“Sure,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was traveling in the company of Browncoats.”

“And you’d best not be makin’ assumptions there, either,” Steve said, gaze hardening. “My crew is my crew, an’ I intend to keep them safe. So keep those seditious ideas to yourself, preacher.”

“I meant no harm by it,” the preacher said softly. “My name is Phil Coulson, and I’m just a civilian. Why would I have any say in that kind of thing?”

Steve relaxed a fraction. “You keep thinkin’ like that, we’re gonna have a smooth flight.”

Phil nodded. “I think we understand each other, Captain.” He turned and made his way back down to the cabins.

Steve ripped off his stocking cap, ruffling his greying blonde hair and closing his eyes.

“ _Ching-wah tsao duh liou mahng_ …” he swore.

* * *

Steve couldn’t figure the preacher out. He really couldn’t, and it was driving him right up the wall of his captain’s cabin. It wasn’t that he was intrusive, or even preachy. He wasn’t either of those things, and Steve wound himself up waiting for the other boot to drop.

It came down to Steve watching the man in the kitchen. The preacher was a fine enough cook, with spices and whatever Steve was able to scrounge up in his food runs. He found himself watching the man’s hands as he chopped and diced, the control with how he wielded the instruments seeming to come from a vast, untapped well of inner calm within the man.

Steve didn’t speak much, though the preacher talked his ear off.

_Phil. His name is Phil._

“And that’s why you don’t make soup with nothing but wild greens if you don’t know the flora in the area,” Phil said with a chuckle. Clint snorted into his elbow. “We had the runs for _days_.”

He reached for another green onion, and Steve watched the blunt tips of his fingers wrap around the stem, plucking it from the bunch like one of God’s own chosen. He set it on the cutting board and sliced into it with deliberate care, chopping it into fine slivers to add to the pot.

“What about you, Captain?” he asked, his voice a rich lull in the steam and smells of food. “You have any stories?”

“None you’re int’rested in hearin’, Preacher,” he said, deciding he’d had enough and rising. “Call me when it’s food.”

“Of course,” Phil said. “You’re welcome to stay if you like. Lack of story doesn’t mean I’m going to deny you dinner. I won’t make you sing for your supper.”

He waved a hand. “Got duties to see to.”

Steve wished he could drink to forget the sight of work roughened nails and calloused fingers dancing over edibles like the skin of a lover. Instead, he climbed the ladder to the cockpit to listen to Dee chatter his ear off.

* * *

Phil leaned back on his elbows, watching the captain shunt cargo into his loading bay himself. The man was definitely something. What, he wasn’t sure, but he was something.

"Don’t b’lieve I asked for a sermon, Padre," Steve said, slanting a stern glance at the preacher sitting and watching him.

"Don’t believe I offered to give one," Phil replied easily, as aware of the pistol slung on the man’s hip as everyone else was. "I’m merely enjoying sun after the long stretch of space."

"So long as you keep y’self to y’self. No room for god out here."

"On the contrary," Phil said, his hands laced over his stomach as he soaked in the warm light from the door of the cargo hold. "God’s in everything we do out here. You’re lucky he seems to like you."

Steve looked like he’d eaten something sour, and Phil chuckled. He shunted the last couple of boxes in a foul humor, nearly dropping one on his foot. Phil watched him through slitted eyelids, making sure he wasn’t caught watching.

"You should prob’ly not stare at me," came a voice, and Phil had the good grace not to flinch. "Makes a man jumpy."

"Wasn’t. Just an old man enjoying some sun," he murmured. "The only one watching is the Lord."

"I wonder." There was a soft huff, and then the shadow passed across his line of sight as the captain moved to prep the ship for takeoff.

Phil wondered if remaining on board was a wise decision. Still, the view didn’t hurt, and as the bay doors closed, he took his contemplations elsewhere so as not to incense the admittedly handsome captain further.

* * *

“You should talk to him,” Natasha said, petting through his hair. He lay with his head in her lap, his eyes closed.

“Not you, too,” he said. “ _Gāisǐ_ , Nat, I can’t.”

“You won’t,” she corrected, taking a sip of tea. “I know you, Rogers, might even know you better than your pilot. Bobbi and I have been talking, and we agree.”

“God save me from the meddling minds of women,” he grumped. “What if I’m happy the way I am. Things change. We don’t know him.”

“He’s been flying with us for over a month. Every time we stop, he pays a little more to go a little further,” she said. “What’s that say about you?”

“I ain’t been takin’ his money.” It was quiet, the admission escaping in the room that smelt of jasmine and rose petals. He could tell Nat was amused by the way her fingers stopped momentarily, then resumed swirling circles along his scalp.

“You realize we could be taking a huge risk by having him aboard. Yet he’s still here. Why?”

“Because…I get the impression he wants t’be,” Steve said, slowly. “God knows why—he prob’ly speaks to the preacher better anyway. You all coulda left me high and dry by now, but you stick around.”

“Because we love you,” she said. He snorted. “Well, I love you, you big dumb spacer. You deserve someone who’ll love you in the best kind of way, though. Who knows, it might even improve your disposition.”

“Shut up,” he mumbled. He could feel his skin heat, but he sat up, ruffling his hair. “You’re a pain.”

“So then why let me keep the shuttle?”

“You’re crew,” he said. To him, it was just that simple. He stood, stretching. “I should let you rest, though. Sleep sweet, _qīn'ài de_.”

He ducked into the hallway, and almost ended up knocking a tray out of the preacher’s hands. He swore, sidestepping awkwardly. Phil backed to the other side, frowning as he tried to juggle the hot food. Steve helped him, reaching out and helping to balance it.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, his voice quiet in the dark of the night. “I was bringing Miss Natasha some supper. I didn’t realize you were there, or I’d have brought double.”

Something perverse nipped at him, the thing that had ruined more than one friendship. It made him realize that Phil was probably judging him for leaving Natasha’s shuttle, his hair a mess and looking far more relaxed than he had since the preacher had joined the ship’s passenger list. He smirked a little, maybe to nettle the man, maybe to assuage his pride, because he and Natasha weren’t like that, regardless of what this man thought.

“You realize what she does for a livin’, right?” he asked. “She’s a Companion.”

Phil blinked, looking up at him. “…and?”

“Yer not gonna go read her the riot act and try and save her soul, are ya?” Steve asked, a thundercloud settling on his brow.

“I wasn’t particularly planning on it, unless she likes men talking about fire and brimstone,” he said mildly. “What she does in her free time is her business. Your relationship with her is yours. I try and make it a habit to be kind to all God’s creatures. That’s what the Good Book advocates. Even the ornery ones, like you.”

Phil had slipped through Natasha’s door, closing it behind him, by the time Steve had come up with a suitable reply.

“Well…see that you do,” he said lamely to the cool metal before he went to his bunk.

* * *

He should never have let the doctor on board. He knew better. He’d taken heart with the idea that maybe he’d find someone like the preacher, a man who didn’t ask questions. He hadn’t, however, expected this. The girl lay on her side in the coolness of the box, and he exchanged a glance with Clint and Bobbi.

“This ain’t good.” Clint shifted back and forth. “We need them gone.”

“No, it ain’t,” he agreed. “Where’s the doctor now, Bobbi?”

“Unpacking,” she said, hefting her shotgun. “You want I should bring him in?”

“Might be a good idea. Human trafficking ain’t what we’re about.”

“Slavery,” Clint spat. “Call it what it is.”

Just then, the girl sat up with a gasp, and then screamed like a banshee. Steve swore and clapped a hand over her mouth, but she flung him off like he was made of paper. Without moving, without lifting a finger. He slammed into the bulkhead, dazed and winded, and watched as Clint and Bobbi hit the other side of the cargo hold.

Scott leaped the catwalk and landed on his feet, rushing to her side.

“Jean, Jean.” He wrapped her in his arms, and also a blanket, covering her nakedness. “Shhh, honey. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

The girl stopped screaming, curling into Scott’s arms and shuddering. Steve struggled to his feet.

“You have some explainin’ to do, Doc.” He gasped, clutching his ribs. Broken.

“I wasn’t expecting you to open the crate!” Summers actually had the gall to look offended.

“You didn’t tell me you was tradin’ in sex slaves!” Steve snapped back.

“She’s not a sex slave!” Summers said. He looked ill. “She’s…she was my fiancée.”

“So you…kidnapped her,” Steve said, trying to logic it out. “This ain’t makin’ you look any better.”

“No. She was taken from me,” he said, Jean tucking her face into his neck as he rubbed her shoulders. “This is what happened…”

* * *

Jean was sitting with the preacher when Steve stepped into the kitchen. He was feeding her strawberries, and she was laughing. At least she was talking more, instead of padding barefoot like a wraith through the ship.

“And that’s why they’re called strawberries,” Phil said, holding out another one. Jean laughed, taking it from him.

“You’re a funny man,” she said. “I bet you made all that up.”

“I did, but you can’t blame me for trying,” he said. Jean fell silent as Steve approached, glancing at the tabletop.

“We’re stopping for supplies,” Steve said. “You coming?”

“Ah. Yes. When we land.” Phil smiled at him. Steve ignored the swoop in his stomach. “Jean here could do with more clothing that isn’t scrounged from Bobbi or Natasha.”

“I like it,” she said, holding out a shawl Steve recognized as Nat’s. “Soft and warm and soft. Nat is the same.”

“Careful,” he said. “She’ll gut you if you do somethin’ she don’t like.”

“No,” Jean said, looking smug. “That’s just you.”

Steve shrugged. Phil pushed the bowl of strawberries to Jean, who picked up another and examined it. He rose, gesturing for Steve to follow him.

“Are you really going to make them leave?” he asked when they made it to the hallway, looking Steve full in the face and frowning. Steve almost flinched, telegraphed by a tightening of his jaw.

“They came on board under false pretenses,” he said. “Lied to me.”

“They’re running. What else do you want them to do?” Phil asked. “Really, that’s the reason?”

“Look, I ain’t no moral pillar,” he said. “They endangered my crew.”

“They’re running from the authorities,” Phil said. “They’re doing everything you do on a daily basis, what’s the difference?”

“They ain’t crew!”

Phil sighed. “I’m disappointed in you, Captain.”

That hit like a punch to the gut, but Steve just laughed. “I ain’t lookin’ fer yer approval, preacher. I got people to keep safe.”

“And these people don’t deserve to be kept safe?” Phil asked.

“They get caught, that’s their business,” he said. “So long as they don’t get caught on the _Liberty_.”

Phil took a breath, then nodded, as if something had been confirmed for him.

“I’ll be leaving when they do,” he said. “When we reach the next stop. I will go ahead and thank you for the ride, as interesting as it’s been.”

Steve did flinch, then. “You want to go?”

“I can’t bear to see them hurt,” he said. “If you won’t see them safely to their destination, I will.”

“And how will you do that, preacher?” Steve asked. “Last I checked, you were pretty opposed to th’ idea of violence.”

“I’ll do more than you’re willing to do,” Phil said, his expression hardening. “You have cattle to unload, and I’ll help with that, but I’ll go no farther.”

“Fine,” Steve snapped. “Go.”

“You didn’t want me aboard in the first place, from what I remember,” Phil said. “I’ll take my leave before I wear that welcome out. You’d do well to remember that he patched you up without asking. And he’d have done the same for anyone else.”

He turned on his heel to rejoin Jean, and Steve watched him go, angry and hurt, before he returned to his quarters.

* * *

“Hands up!” Phil dropped the halter, the cow sitting placidly beside him, chewing her cud. “You’re all under arrest for trafficking in illegal livestock and rustling.”

“The hell we are,” Steve grunted, pulling his piece. Phil ducked between the cattle in the pen as shots erupted around them, kneeling down and pulling a concealed pistol from his boot.

He rose, firing over the back of the cow, and took down a sniper shooting from the trees. He had to keep moving. The buyers were engaged with the firefight, and Steve was fighting back to back with Clint, leaving Phil exposed. He darted to the heavy lifter, and almost made it when he stumbled.

“Preacher!” Steve cried. Phil looked at him, feeling slow and stupid. Why was he cold? His shirt was warm, something red spilling onto his shirt. When had he gotten to his knees?

Everything felt slow. Time almost froze. Phil smiled up at Steve.

“Hi,” he said. “I believe I’ve been shot.”

Steve gave a burst of panicked laughter. “I b’lieve you have. Hang on, preacher, we’re gonna get you outta here.”

Phil closed his eyes, smiling. “It’s okay. S’comfortable here.”

“No no no, you stay with me,” Steve said, lifting Phil. “Stay awake, preacher. Clint, the lifter.”

Clint drove the mechanism back to the ship while Steve ran, carrying Phil. His arms and legs flopped like a China doll’s, and his head lolled as his breathing got fainter.

“Doc. Doc!” Steve yelled.

“He’s not here,” Natasha said.

“What?”

“He left. Jean went with him. He said he knew he was supposed to go. He’s bunked up in town.”

“ _Tai-kong suo-yo duh shing-chiou sai-jin wuh duh pee-goo_ ,” Steve snapped. “Clint, go find him, drag him back here at gunpoint if you have to. Tell him it’s the preacher.”

“We don’t have time for Clint to break kneecaps,” Natasha said. “There’s an Alliance freighter in orbit, the _Magellan_. I can stabilize Phil. We need to get him to actual medical care.”

“We ain’t got much of a choice,” Steve said. “Least the cargo’s gone. Chocks up, we take off in five.”

He ran off, yelling for Dee.

* * *

Phil woke as the  _Magellan_ docked the  _Liberty_ . His head lolled, but Natasha smiled at him.

“We’re getting you help, Phil,” she whispered. Her hands were still bloody, but he could feel the bandage around his middle.

“Where—“

“No, you can’t bring him aboard,” the ship’s captain was saying. “We don’t provide medical care to every piece of spacer trash that blows up against our windshield.”

Steve bristled, puffing his chest out and getting in the smaller man’s face. “You listen here—“

“Captain,” Phil called weakly, and the two men turned. “If you’d be so kind as to show him this.”

He held out his alliance ID, and the captain of the _Magellan_ took it.

“Oh,” he breathed. “I need the medical team down here on the double. Get Mister Coulson to urgent care this second.”

Steve watched, dumbfounded, as Phil was carried away.

“Come on,” Natasha said, tugging his arm. “You have a Doctor and his fiancée to find.”

Steve nodded, allowing her to pull her away.

* * *

“What you did for them was a nice gesture,” Phil said, standing at the door of Steve’s quarters. Steve stood in the doorway, turned to look at him. He’d been ambushed on his way to bed, tired, stressed out, but the crew was all on board – including Scott and Jean.

“No it wasn’t.” Steve shrugged. “They’re crew now. I always come back for crew.”

“You came back for me,” he said. “Am I crew?”

“No.” Steve looked away, and Phil’s heart sank. “You’re not crew.”

“Oh.” Phil turned, ready to limp back to his own quarters. Steve’s hand shot out, and caught him. Phil stopped, the large hand on his wrist sending goosebumps up his arms.

“You’re more than crew,” he whispered, and leaned in, tipping Phil’s head up and kissing him. Phil melted into it, humming softly in delight as Steve pressed him into a corner, nuzzling against him. “Stay.”

“Of course,” Phil said. “We’re not always going to get along, you know.”

“I’m not askin’ for a yes-man,” Steve grumped. “I’m also not askin’ you to save my soul. I thought you’d be more opposed to this.”

“I’m Christian, not dead,” Phil said. “It’s not the be all-end all of my personality.”

Steve chuckled, and Phil followed.

“I almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, before. I’m a pig-headed asshole,” he murmured. Phil smiled up at him, and for the first time out in the black, Steve felt warm from the inside out.

“You are,” Phil agreed, making Steve scowl. “But you’re _my_ pig-headed asshole.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Well, I suppose I can handle that.”

“I’m glad,” Phil said, sliding his hands to Steve’s waist. “Because I’m hoping I can fill that space for a while.”

“Come to bed,” Steve said.

“All right,” Phil said.

“Though now I’m cross, ‘cause you went and got y’self shot. I can’t welcome you back properly.” Steve wiggled his brows at Phil, and was delighted with the flush that crept up his neck.

“Ass.” Phil preceded him down the ladder into his quarters. “You can’t wait?”

“I can. But I’d rather do this.”

Steve pushed him gently down onto the bed, hovering over him and kissing him.

* * *

Later, as Phil slept cradled to his chest, Steve reveled in the warmth against his side and the fact that a man of God could take the Lord’s name in vain, same as any other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been about half-done in the giant word file I have for the whole thing. Figured I should finish it. I love my Firefly AU.
> 
> As a note, you might see some familiar stuff if you follow me on tumblr. This is intended. Also, one will be like a director's cut, with more stuff added. So stay tuned, Constant Readers.
> 
> Translations:  
> Mei Mei = "Little Sister"  
> Zhiyo = "Big Brother"  
> Ching-wah tsao duh liou mahng = "Frog humping son of a bitch"  
> Gāisǐ = "Dammit"  
> qīn'ài de = "Darlin'"  
> Tai-kong suo-yo duh shing-chiou sai-jin wuh duh pee-goo = "Shove all the planets in the universe up my ass"


	4. Because even when you don't exist, I'm always in love with you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is to give light must endure burning.” — Viktor Frankl

Phil stared at the wreckage of the Valkyrie. The plane had broken up on impact, the pieces large and jagged as the craft spun end over end when Steve had nosed into the water. He felt a flip in his stomach as he paced through the recovery site.

When he looked to the lead tech, the woman merely shook her head. No living survivors. No human remains. He looked to the cold water of the arctic, where Steve lay, alone and forgotten. His hands clenched in his gloves, his gaze on the lapping water. If he could part it, he would. He’d dig into the trenches, search the hollows and byways, but it was no use.

“I’m sorry, sir. The ice shelf shifted before we could get anything else,” the tech beside him said. “The rest of it slipped, and we almost lost MacKenzie trying to get it out.”

“No,” Phil said. “Don’t apologize for safety. Remember what I said when we started this?”

“Right,” she said. “We did recover this.”

She held out a scrap of fabric. It was worn, waterlogged and stained, but Phil could see the star, faded from its original white. Ragged fabric around it suggested it had been nibbled on, and he swallowed, spreading his fingers across it.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s not much, but it’s better than we hoped for.”

He pocketed the swatch, wondering at the heart that beat beneath it for so long. If he’d just been sooner, if Thor hadn’t resisted debriefing, if he’d driven over the speed limit…

He shook himself.

No sense mourning what was never his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the waves.

* * *

“The fabric you got me almost didn’t have enough of a tissue sample,” Byers said, swirling a liquid in the test tube. “It was pretty damaged. But I managed to do it. I was able to reverse engineer enough of it to complete Erskine’s formula.”

Phil’s whole body seemed to vibrate. “Is it done, then?”

“Theoretically, yes. I’m waiting on suitable test subjects,” she said. “I can begin animal testing tomorrow.”

“Human trials?” Phil asked, his eyes on the glowing blue liquid in the tube.

“Six months.” Byers handed him the swatch of fabric. “Take it, Phil. And go tell Fury. I’ll make a formal report in a couple hours.”

He fingered the star through the plastic bag. Six months.

* * *

“No,” Fury said.

“But I would be the ideal candidate!” Phil said. “I’m old, Marcus, past my prime. They’ve duplicated enough of the serum that I’ve seen it work in rats, apes, dogs. We don’t even need radiation anymore with the aerosol delivery system. Byers has worked out that if we build a delivery chamber and charge it with electrostatic energy, we get the same effect. It’s safer.”

“PJ.” Nick fixed him with a look. “You know better. I have a list of candidates I want you to screen. I know you want to take the risk, but…no. I need you here. You’re my one good eye.”

“Marcus,” Phil said. “Don’t make me beg. I don’t ask you for a lot. I want to try.”

“No,” Nick said, his voice sharper and more stern than Phil had heard it in years when speaking to him. “That’s my final decision. Screen the subjects. Start with Mikas.”

* * *

“After screening all thirty subjects, none are suitable candidates for Project Phoenix,” Phil said, recording his report. “As of today’s date, no one candidate meets the qualifications set forth by Director Fury. I have exhausted my available funding and exceeded my project’s end date by ten days. The closest that I came was subject 235-616, Eli Bradley. While the young man volunteering was in impeccable health, digging into his background revealed that his grandfather, Isaiah Bradley, was the same Isaiah Bradley that participated in Project: Rebirth in the 1940’s after Steve Rogers’ successful transformation. When his blood was tested, a sample indicated latent remnants of that serum that would have skewed test results for the STRIKE formula.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“As of July 22, 2011, there is no known candidate suitable for the testing of the STRIKE serum. Certainly none that match the qualifications of the original candidate, Steven Rogers. They just don’t make them like him anymore.”

He slugged back a gulp of hot coffee and continued.

“It is, with these results, that I have come to the conclusion that Project Phoenix be shelved until a later date,” Phil said. “With the burgeoning crisis of the Avengers Initiative lacking a solid leader, I can no longer devote resources to the serum and potential candidates.”

He sealed the files after signing off on them, and looked at the testing chamber. It would remain under lock and key in the Helicarrier, along with the serum. He turned back to the recording.

“Until such time as the Avengers Initiative is settled, this project remains under lockdown, with no one to access it save with permission from me or Director Fury. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Council, I appreciate your time and attention to this matter. Project Head Coulson signing off.”

* * *

The Helicarrier pitched and yawed when the explosion went off. Phil skidded into the wall, banging his forehead against the bulkhead.

“Jesus Christ,” Marks swore. “What the hell was that?”

“Loki’s calvary,” Phil said. “Led by Barton, no doubt. Loki came too easy. It was a bluff. I knew something was off. He wasn’t a prisoner, he was _bait_.”

His gut churning, he squeezed her shoulder. Blue eyes came up, and she snapped to attention, years as his junior agent stiffening her spine.

“Get the non-requisite personnel to the storerooms. They’ll be away from the fighting. Don’t let them take you, but don’t get anyone killed by taking unnecessary risks, all right?” She nodded and he patted her shoulder. “Good. Get going.”

“Where are you going, sir?” she asked.

“I’ve got to head to R&D, clear them out and lock it down,” he said. She nodded.

As she ran down the hall, he cut the opposite way, ducking through the halls as he listened to the frantic chatter on his earpiece.

_Hostiles on the third deck. Armed with submachine guns and–_

_Hostiles on second deck, heading toward the bridge—_

_It’s...oh, shit, it’s **Barton** , he’s—_

_No, please—_

_–like machines, my god, they just executed that guy—_

Phil turned it down to a dull roar, polished shoes clicking on the metallic floors as he booked it to R&D. The scientists, following procedure, had locked it down. He padded through the silenced halls, looking at the tech.

All of it new, all of it designed to subdue the superhuman threat. None of it would matter. He swallowed. He knew what he needed to do, and he headed for the abandoned labs in the back.

A roar echoed through the craft from end to end.

_Banner is loose, I repeat, Banner is loose—_

_Target sighted, engaging target._

_Target angry, target **ANGRY** —_

Phil swiped his card and pressed his palm to the plate.

_“Authorization.”_

“Coulson, Phillip James. Access code Foxtrot Alpha India Lima dash two-three-five.”

_“Access granted.”_ The doors whooshed open, the lights coming on as he entered the test chamber. He looked at the pod, nodding slowly as he realized he could do this on his own. He stripped to his a-shirt and threw on a pair of SHIELD issue sweats, prepping the refrigerated formula in the containment cell. Even after a year, the test tube glowed blue with motile serum. He tapped it and settled it into place, the nebulizer coming to life with a low hum.

_Project Phoenix, test subject, Coulson, Phillip J. Please step into the chamber._

The voice of the computer was calm compared to the bedlam in other parts of the ship.

“Let’s hope this works,” he muttered. He set the chamber on a timer, stepped in, and closed the door behind him. He stood in the middle of the chamber, barefoot, and watched the static buildup. The little sparks turned into bigger sparks, and then shot to the lightning rod at the top of the chamber. When they hit, a light blue mist began to seep into the chamber. It was hard to breathe, but Phil sucked in a breath and bore it.

He hadn’t anticipated the _cold_ , like a casket of ice closing around his heart before it suddenly roared to life. That was the only explanation for it, _roared_. His heart thundered in his ears. His bones cracked and expanded, thickening, his lungs sucked in more of the serum, his blood pumping it everywhere. His brain came to _life_. Where once he was a quick thinker, now he was lightning given form and function.

He screamed, it was soundless, his ears ringing as they became more sensitive. His eyes, blinded by the lights in the chamber, squeezed themselves shut. He curled into a ball, twitching, as the serum took hold.

It wasn’t a blessing, it was a curse, and Phil arched off the floor, his heels drumming on the glass as he convulsed.

It felt like hours, the Helicarrier heaving and shuddering with him as it gave birth to the new Phil Coulson, bearing him through countless labor pains. Eventually, the pain eased. He opened his eyes, squinting in the light as his eyes adjusted.

Standing, he took one breath, then another. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the containment unit.

Slowly, he flexed new muscle, watching it ripple. He felt twenty years younger, his aches and pains dulled as his body repaired old hurts in a blinking. The Helicarrier shuddered again, and he pulled open the chamber door.

It shattered in his hand. Dropping the handle, he realized his shirt wouldn’t fit him. He turned, looking at the uniform in the case. The ideal. It wouldn’t have fit him before.

“Well, no one else is going to use it,” he said, elbowing the glass.

* * *

It was all going so well until the Chitauri fell. He stood, watching Stark cough himself back to consciousness, the holographic shield on his arm as the Hulk nodded in approval at his little friend. Thor landed, and Natasha called from the comms that she was safe.

“Good,” Phil said. “Natasha. Let’s rendezvous—“

“Coulson?” she asked. Phil tried to answer. His lips were numb. They wouldn’t work right. He made a grunting noise, eyes widening before his sight began to go fuzzy. Thor caught him as he fell, and he knew no more.

* * *

Phil woke in a hammock, overlooking a sunny meadow filled with wildflowers. He sat up, rubbing his neck, and realized he was back to normal. He frowned, putting his feet on the ground and turned around. The hammock was on a hill, and the path behind him led to a lush garden filled with roses, tulips, and hearty vegetables and fruits. A bench was placed in the middle, facing a koi pond, and a small figure sat there, feeding the fish.

He turned as Phil approached, and Phil caught his breath. Steve Rogers. He sat on the bench, as thin as he was before the procedure. He smiled at Phil, and Phil felt a swoop in his stomach. Steve patted the bench beside him, and he sat next to the icon, who resumed feeding the fish.

“That was a good fight,” he said. Phil flushed, unsure if that was praise. It sounded almost sarcastic. “You always fight like that?”

“I might have cribbed some moves,” he murmured, looking at his feet.

“You did a good thing, son,” Steve said. “You know what happened to you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I remember collapsing, I remember Thor catching me…”

“You died.” Steve tossed another handful of food to the fish. “There’s one thing about the serum that a lot of people didn’t know. Erskine himself didn’t realize it either. It’s volatile. Even in me it wasn’t stable.”

“What?” he asked. “But—“

“You felt great, didn’t you? Twenty years younger?” Phil nodded. “Well, that comes with a price. It’s a double edged sword, and it cuts like the dickens. You ever try to burn a candle at both ends?”

Phil shook his head, glancing at Steve.

“Burns twice as bright, but half as long,” Steve said, smiling at him. “And boy, did you burn brilliantly. Better’n me.”

“I just…wanted to help.”

“I know you did,” Steve said. “And you did, for what time you were able. Your sacrifice turned the tide. You can’t ask any more of yourself than that. What you did was a good thing. Even if your motives were selfish at first.”

Steve gave him an arch look. Phil flushed again, right to his hairline.

“I loved you,” he said.

“I know.” Steve tossed another handful of food. “And you did me proud.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What…happened to you?”

“I wasn’t supposed to come back from the mission to take down the Red Skull,” Steve said placidly. “I knew it, the second I started throwing up blood in the halls of HYDRA. I had one chance, and I took it. My organs were failing. The only reason I lasted longer than you was because I was in my twenties. There’s a reason Erskine went looking for a young man.”

“So when I went looking for you?”

“I don’t think you woulda found me,” Steve said. “Well, I wouldn’t have been alive. I passed almost as soon as the cockpit filled with water. You defrosted me, I’d have melted away like so much candyfloss.”

Phil swallowed. Steve seemed to sense his discomfort, because a thin hand closed over his own.

“Hey. None of that. My pain ended a long time ago. It was cold for a minute, and then I woke up here.” Phil looked up, and found Steve smiling. Even now, it made his heart thump hard in his chest. “I don’t hurt anymore. I can see my ma anytime I want, and she’s proud of me. I can see Bucky, but he’s not come home yet. I don’t know when he will be. Peggy’s just as beautiful as ever. We go dancing sometimes.”

Phil nodded, even as hot tears spilled over his cheeks.

“I never married,” he said, his voice heavy. “I could never…get this idea out of my head. That you were still out there. When I say I loved you—“

“Hey, I’m a worldly fella. I grew up in Brooklyn at the turn of the century. We were the queer ghetto. I get it.” Steve smiled, and his hand hadn’t moved. “I don’t know what to tell you that’ll make it better, though, Phil.”

“You can’t. I had this idea and it never happened. I could have lived better. I could have—“

 He was suddenly disgusted with himself. “I loved an idea.”

“No.” Steve smiled, shaking his head. “You loved me. You were the closest anyone came to being right. That counts for something.”

Phil scrubbed at his face.

“Besides, Peggy’s husband Mike’d be awful sore if I stole his girl,” Steve said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Why do you think I was the one to greet you?”

“Because…” Phil, baffled, shook his head.

“I’d like to stay for a bit,” Steve said, shuffling his feet. “This is your space, your own personal heaven. We can all visit, but this spot is yours. You think…I could stay? It’s beautiful here.”

“You want to stay?” Phil asked.

“Yeah, if you’ll have me.” Steve looked unsure for the first time the whole conversation. “I mean, if you don’t—“

Phil cupped his face and kissed him. It was chaste, lasting only a moment, but Steve was smiling when Phil pulled back.

“Stay.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “That was swell. You…think we could…?”

“Come on,” Phil said, standing and holding out his hand. “Let’s go exploring.”

The thin hand in his was all he needed, in this life or the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not all of these can be happy, I'm afraid. But this was a little more bittersweet than I hoped it would be. I cried writing the epilogue. I hope you enjoyed it, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Something else I was tinkering with while I was working on Douleur. I thought you'd like to see what I've been working on. Hope you enjoy, Constant Readers.


End file.
